


1940

by moon_custafer



Series: The Bureaucracy of the Otherworld Was Surprisingly Generous When It Came to Transportation [4]
Category: Mysterious Mr. Quin — Agatha Christie, Norse Mythology
Genre: Battle of Britain, Gen, stealth cameos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-01 00:29:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15131108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_custafer/pseuds/moon_custafer
Summary: "It occurred to Mr. Satterthwaite that he couldn’t quite place her accent. A young American lady educated in Switzerland, perhaps? She was dressed like one of those WAAFs, or Wrens, or something — he was unsure of the exact uniforms of the women’s auxiliary services."





	1. Chapter 1

Skuld crowed exultantly as she skipped off the cloud layer that lay over the Channel, laughing as tiny ice crystals caught in her hair. Her partner was not with her — this was not Lohmann’s type of errand, and even with their tendency to go unnoticed, his presence would hardly have passed without comment in wartime England. Besides, he was catching up with an old friend.

Taking advantage of his absence, the Valkyrie was flying in a way that would have made the police inspector grimace and grab at his hat-brim, had he been there to experience it; especially since a battle was currently going on all about her.

Invisible on the cutting wind, she studied the skirmishing aircraft with the eyes of a dispassionate judge: that pilot handled his machine with particular skill; this one less so — it was likely his first mission, and perhaps his last if luck did not help him.

Skuld believed in luck — at least, she knew that she sometimes stayed her hand, and could not say what made her do so.

* * *

Mr. Satterthwaite’s frail, birdlike old bones did not appreciate having to spend time in a damp and chilly, however historical, crypt beneath an old church; his mind, on the other hand, could not help but seize the occasion to observe his fellow men and women under circumstances that he’d never before imagined would arise.

Still, these bombing raids had been going on for several months now, and discomfort, in Mr. Satterthwaite’s person, was beginning to win out over philosophical interest. He wondered just how long the Germans were going to keep it up; and whether or not he and his countryfolk were going to be able to keep up their side just a little bit longer.

The crypt was not the shelter Mr. Satterthwaite and his household usually went to when the need arose — he and his chauffeur, Masters, had been returning from a quite dull engagement when the sirens had gone off and forced them to go to ground in the neighbourhood they had been passing through — a snoozy little suburb with an old church still remaining in the middle of it.

Masters, he was pleased to note, seemed no more fazed by the bombs falling above them than he would have been by a flat tire; though Mr. Satterthwaite suspected the man was slightly put out at not being able to remedy the former situation so directly as he could have the latter. He smiled to himself at the thought of his chauffeur unpacking a spare Spitfire from the boot and taking off to chase the bombers away.

An awkward young woman bought around mugs of tea. Mr. Satterthwaite thanked her with exquisite courtesy, though as he’d anticipated, the tea proved _very_ weak; little more than scalding water, it had, so far as the old gentleman’s palate was concerned, rather less pungency than the air in the crypt, which was a fug of rising damp and wet wool. For the tea’s warmth, however, he was genuinely grateful. Nearby, someone less diplomatic than himself gave voice to the opinion Mr. Satterthwaite had suppressed:

“Makes a jolly hot-water-bottle, at least.”

Perhaps the wag was in fact something of a diplomat after all, albeit in a different idiom: for a ripple of laughter echoed around their corner of the old crypt, and Mr. Satterthwaite saw faces momentarily grow less grim. Slightly cheered himself, he pulled his coat more tightly about his thin frame (he’d offered his travel rug to an old woman shortly after taking his seat in the shelter) and peered at the stones about them. The light was not good enough to make out most of the inscriptions, though the dates seemed mostly to be of the seventeenth through the eighteenth centuries.

Mr. Satterthwaite wondered who they had been, the people buried behind and beneath those stones — worthies in wigs, no doubt, for whom wars were things that took place on the Continent or further abroad, and flying machines a wild dream. He wondered what they would make of their present company in this underworld— but then, as good folk buried in hallowed ground, he supposed their souls weren’t down here with their bones.

Outwardly, Mr. Satterthwaite had never deviated from the church of his upbringing. Privately, experience had left him less orthodox in his beliefs, though about as far from atheism as one could be. He had also learned to recognize when something out of the ordinary was about to happen. He felt now that some such thing was due; and he began to scan the crowd bivouacked in the old crypt, with the hope of seeing among them a certain thin dark man, perhaps with a shadow falling mask-like across his eyes. The stained glass was all upstairs, of course, and at night could throw no rainbow colours over any visitor to the church.

The young woman came around again to collect their mugs. Mr. Satterthwaite had not yet drunk all his tea, but the stuff had grown cold, and he thanked her and handed it back without regret. As the others about him did the same, he caught the sound of one particular _thank you_ that seemed to ring differently. It had come, he was quite sure, from the tall fair young woman seated at the opposite end of the tomb beside him.

The fair young woman, for her part, was looking back at him with curiosity. Mr. Satterthwaite was not used to being on the receiving end of such a look; normally he was, though well-liked, part of the background chorus of people’s lives. She edged towards him along the tomb.

“You,” she said, “strike me as someone who’s seen a great deal.” She tilted her blonde head, considering him like a specimen. Mr. Satterthwaite began to find this uncomfortable. Though he himself liked to observe others, he hoped he was a least a little more discreet about it than this formidable creature.

“Well,” he began, with a little dry laugh, “until recently, not so much of _this_ kind of thing. But yes, I suppose at my age, experience is my chief strength. Experience and patience,” he added.

She smiled at that, and her teeth were very white. It occurred to Mr. Satterthwaite that he couldn’t quite place her accent. A young American lady educated in Switzerland, perhaps? She was dressed like one of those WAAFs, or Wrens, or something — he was unsure of the exact uniforms of the women’s auxiliary services.

In any case, Mr. Satterthwaite did not believe her to be anything of the sort – she gave him the same prickling sensation he associated with his friend Mr. Quin, though the two could not have been less alike in appearance. There was something about her at once gentle and terrible. He shivered, though not from fear. The curtain was rising. Whatever-it-was that he had sensed was beginning.


	2. Chapter 2

All could hear the bombs now; though Mr. Satterthwaite could not tell if they were directly overhead or echoing through the ground from a mile away. He saw Masters grimace in anguish and knew the man’s fear was for the car. Everyone else looked tense, save the fair woman — but of course _she_ wouldn’t, would she?

Looking about, Mr. Satterthwaite saw that one other person present showed the same preternatural calm, but he felt no welcome pang of recognition; this was not his friend Mr. Quin. This was hardly more than a boy, pale beneath his freckles, with a lick of dark hair that kept falling in his eyes.

Acutely aware that the fair woman had her eye on them both, the old gentleman nevertheless smiled at the lad and whispered in his most charmingly conspiratorial manner:

“Busy chaps tonight, aren’t they, the Germans?” The young man gave him a long, grave look, then replied in a dreamy voice:

“Oh, I don’t mind, really. You see, I’m already dead.”

A chill passed through Mr. Satterthwaite and he was grateful that no one else seemed to have heard this extraordinary statement, especially given their present surroundings. The youth, meanwhile, shook his head abruptly.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “It’s been a strange few days – I don’t feel as though I’ve quite got my head on straight.” Mr. Satterthwaite recognized his voice now as that of the jolly young man who’d made the joke about the tea.

“Why, what’s happened?” he asked, uneasily. The young man gave a chuckle that had the slightest edge of hysteria to it.

“I think – I think I was killed,” he said. “Only I’m still here, and I don’t know why.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Mr. Satterthwaite saw the fair-haired woman nod slightly, as though something had been confirmed. Well, and what if she _had_ stepped into the role usually performed by his friend Mr. Quin? It seemed that he, Satterthwaite, still had the job of prompter in the drama.

“There is room to sit in this corner,” he said to the young man, “and perhaps if you talk about it things will come clear.”

The youth took a seat between the old gentleman and the fair-haired woman in uniform.

“My name’s Saunders, and I ought to be up there right now,” he pointed an index towards the roof of the crypt and, presumably the heavens above it; then stopped himself with another wry little laugh. “In a ‘plane, I mean, not with a harp. Lord knows I don’t expect to go — well never mind all that.” He took a deep breath and began again: “I’m a pilot, is what I’m trying to explain. I was caught here on my way back from leave. If I’d been a little early I could’ve made it to the field, been some use.”

“You’ll get another chance, I’m sure,” Mr. Satterthwaite said soothingly. Saunders gazed up at the groined ceiling.

“I suppose,” he said, more to himself than to the older man, “this means I can have another go at asking Janet to marry me, before—“ He seemed to remember he was telling a stranger his story and broke off with an embarrassed smile, but Mr. Satterthwaite, who felt they were at last treading more familiar ground, smiled reassuringly.

“Go on,” he said.

“Janet—“ young Saunders continued. “Well, she’s Paul’s girl, or at least—“

His voice had cracked on the name _Paul_ , and Mr. Satterthwaite thought he understood.

“Paul was your friend?” he asked. “And he was killed recently?” Saunders nodded and bit his lip.

The uniformed woman remained silent.


	3. Chapter 3

Mr. Satterthwaite was a sympathetic listener, and young Saunders was eager to unburden his heart to someone, and he had quickly sketched out his friendship with the late Lt. Paul Atwood, and the latter’s romance with one Janet Hayward:

“So they were engaged, and as good as married, really. Only not quite as good, in the eyes of the Law and the Royal Air Force, and Paul got himself killed before they could go to the registry office and tie everything up.”

“Dear me,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “Is it, er, a delicate situation?” The young man looked startled.

“I didn’t even think of – I mean, I don’t think there’s a kid on the way, if that’s what you’re asking. But Janet _ought_ to be getting a widow’s pension — at least then she could stop working in that poky little shop in Chelsea and have a garden, like she always wanted — and she’s not. So I thought, well, _I’m_ just as likely to be killed – and if she’d agree to have me, on paper, well, she’d get my pension, only it’d really be Jack’s, d’you see?”

Mr. Satterthwaite did see, and he also saw a difficulty:

“But young man, supposing you _don’t_ get killed?”

As if in answer, another rumble shook the earth around the crypt, and Saunders glanced upwards as if to say: _How could I not?_

* * *

Skuld sat listening. The young man’s scheme reminded her of when she’d first taken Lohmann from the world of the living. The detective had been very quiet for most of the journey, but there’d been a moment when he’d sat up suddenly and swore.

“What’s wrong?” she’d asked.

“I ought to have got married,” he’d spluttered. “Now those bastards won’t even have to pay out my pension to anybody.”

* * *

“But tell me,” Mr. Satterthwaite was saying, “About your recent... er, death?”

“It’s a bit complicated,” said Saunders. He hesitated, with a slightly embarrassed look, and Mr. Satterthwaite guessed correctly that he was afraid of boring an elderly civilian with a detailed description of air combat.

“If the exact details are classified,” the old gentleman said, realizing he could offer the young man a way out of this conversational cleft stick, “we can take it as read, I suppose, that there was a battle, and that your ‘plane was struck?”

“Just so. Hit in the belly, either in the engine or just in front of the long range tank — well anyway, the point is, I wasn’t going to be bringing that aircraft back. The manual says – and here he began to recite, like a child delivering its lesson: “ _Whenever possible, the aircraft should be abandoned by parachute rather than ditched, since the ditching qualities are known to be very poor._ ” Only bailing out’s not very easy either — you loosen your straps, jettison the canopy and hold the aircraft level, and then you let go the stick, and the aircraft’s supposed to drop away from you.”

Mr. Satterthwaite shuddered at the image, but the youth continued softly:

“I think remember letting go the stick – and then nothing after that. I must have lost consciousness,but if I did, I don’t see how I could have opened my ‘chute.”

“Perhaps you _did_ open it,” Mr. Satterthwaite offered, “and then lost your memory?”

“That’s what they said must’ve happened,” the pilot said, doubtfully. Mr. Satterthwaite was trying to think of a reply, when the all-clear sounded, and everyone began making their way upstairs. 

* * *

The bombs had evidently fallen some distance away, for the church and surrounding buildings showed no visible damage. However, when the Masters climbed behind the wheel of the auto, the engine would not start.

“Dear me,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “do you think the vibrations could have… shaken a part loose, or something?” He spoke uncertainly, for he did not know much about engines.

Masters began the usual investigations of the machinery. The lieutenant, standing beside Mr. Satterthwaite, apologized:

“I’d give your man a hand, but I’m a pilot rather than a mechanic — and not much of a pilot either, it seems.”

The auto’s headlamps were still functioning, and Mr. Satterthwaite and his companions stood in the beams. _How pale he looks,_ Mr. Satterthwaite thought, _or is that just because of the artificial light?_

 It was the fair Wren who coughed politely and asked whether Masters had taken a look at the magneto:

“I know not much can go wrong with a magneto,” she said, “but isn’t it possible this gentleman had the right idea about the vibrations shaking something loose? Cleaning and reconnecting it might help.”

Masters prodded the part in question and with a grunt of approval acknowledged that the young lady was right.

“I owe you my thanks, my dear,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “and since at this point in the evening we are all late for whatever suppers we were going to, may I treat you and young Saunders here — that is, if there’s anywhere close by where one _can_ get a good supper,” he finished.


	4. Chapter 4

As it fell out, the party found a public house almost immediately, though not one very promising in appearance. Lt. Saunders wondered aloud if it was even open, for the windows — at first — seemed unlit. Mr. Satterthwaite, who had decided on impulse to brave the cold and get out of the car for a closer look, glanced up towards the second story of the old brick building and, noticing that the name on the faded signboard was _The Pied Fool_ , walked up to the door and tried it.

It proved to be open after all. Saunders swore in surprise, then apologized to the fair Wren, who laughed.Everyone followed Mr. Satterthwaite into the unprepossessing establishment. It was indeed dimly-lit, with no other customers, and there was a bit of embarrassed jostling among the group before Mr. Satterthwaite’s little dry cough conjured up a headwaiter (he was very obviously a _head_ waiter, even in the apparent absence of any other waiters): a short, very fat man whose mustachioed face expressed a sort of lackadaisical efficiency. This personage immediately began apologizing, lighting lamps, and shepherding them towards a table in the saloon.

“Forgive me, _Mademoiselle_ and _Monsieurs_ ,” he said, speaking with a rather surprising French accent and sounding more cheerful than contrite. “We were just reopening after that devil of a bombardment, if you’ll pardon the expression. Pray allow me to go tell my— tell the chef, that you have arrived.” He opened a door covered in shabby green baize, squeezed himself though the opening, and left them alone and somewhat bewildered.

“Rum place, this,” said young Saunders when, after about half a minute, no one else had spoken. “And what a strange accent — what part of France d’you think he’s from? If he really is French, I mean, and not just trying to impress the customers.”

“He’s a Norman,” said the Wren with certainty.

“What, 1066 and William the Conquerer, that kind of thing?” asked Saunders, surprised.

“Well, I think he arrived a little more recently than that,” she replied.

The baize on the door was failing to muffle an argument going on in the kitchen between the headwaiter and a deeper voice that must have belonged to the chef, if one took the word in its original sense of “chief.” The headwaiter, at any rate, addressed the owner of the other voice as _maître_ , though his tone was stoutly loyal rather than subservient. He seemed to be playing the role of Kent to the chef’s Lear, unafraid to gainsay his master when he thought the latter was making a terrible mistake.

The Wren, Mr. Satterthwaite noticed, was trying very hard not to laugh. At last the fat headwaiter reappeared from the kitchen, bearing a dusty-looking wine bottle, and said to them:

“The supper will be ready in just a few minutes for your party, including the gentleman who is yet to arrive.”

“There must be some mistake,” said Lt. Saunders. “There’s no one else in our party.”

“I believe,” said Mr. Satterthwaite gently, “that an old friend of mine will be joining us.” He found himself exchanging a glance with the fair woman.

“But we didn’t know ourselves that we’d be stopping here,” said the young pilot.

“Nevertheless, this is quite the kind of thing Mr. Quin does.”

The headwaiter nodded, made as deep a bow as his rotund stomach would permit, and uncorked the bottle that no one had asked for. The heady scent of the wine was dizzying even before he began to pour; it filled the shabby little saloon and seemed, almost imperceptibly, to brighten everything around the table.

* * *

 

Continuing the train of surprises, a supper _did_ arrive within the next few minutes; and was delicious, if puzzling. Mr. Satterthwaite, who had dined at a great many different tables over a long life, was quite sure the rabbit they were eating had never seen the inside of a hutch, and that the chef neither knew nor cared that butter was rationed; but he declined to comment on these details. Lt. Saunders, less discreet, winked across the table and said:

“This bunny is the best I’ve ever had, and the carrots aren’t bad either. At least I think they’re carrots. I don’t usually like carrots, so p’rhaps these aren’t.” He took another bite, with a thoughtful expression. “I’m not certain what this fish is, either— and I can’t begin to guess what the soup we had was flavoured with.” The little party spent a few minutes discussing what the chef might have used, but could only agree on the excellence of the results, when the round little headwaiter reappeared leading a thin dark man in an overcoat.

“Gentlefolk,” the headwaiter said with a flourish: “the last member of your party has arrived.” The men rose from their seats, Mr. Satterthwaite the first by a whisper:

“Quin, what a pleasure to see you. My dears, this is my old friend Mr. Harley Quin.” There were handshakes all round.

Mr. Satterthwaite was not particularly surprised to notice that the lamp over their table, which he had observed to be milky glass when the headwaiter lit it, was now stained glass. He smiled indulgently as Quin seated himself under its rainbow light. His friend _would_ have his little joke.

“I shall fetch another plate!” cried the headwaiter with enthusiasm, and retreated to the kitchen.

“What’s that?! Why, I shall serve him myself!” came an even more enthusiastic roar, and a moment later the chef himself appeared around the baize door— a giant of a man, almost as big around as the headwaiter and a good foot-and-a-half taller, with a greying, curly Van Dyke beard adorning his olive face.

“Monsieur Quin!” he said as he placed the supper in front of the late guest and made a bow of a magnificence Mr. Satterthwaite had never before seen, even in the far-off days of his youth. “I trust you will enjoy your supper and that your companions are enjoying theirs.”

“I’m enjoying mine,” Saunders said. The company, and perhaps the wine, appeared to have improved the young man’s spirits considerably since Mr. Satterthwaite had met him in the crypt.

“I know your cookery to be excellent, monsieur,” Quin said with an apologetic smile up at the towering chef, who made another bow:

”I must ready the salad,” he said, looked as though he were about to say more, thought better of it, and retreated. Quin picked up his fork gracefully and addressed the other diners:

“Please excuse my lateness. You see, I had an appointment in Chelsea.”

Mr. Satterthwaite felt a chill, and the fair-haired woman looked at Quin with a silent, level gaze. Even Lt. Saunders appeared to notice the change in atmosphere:

“I say, that’s where Janet works.” The new arrival’s face was sombre, and Mr. Satterthwaite guessed what news was waiting to be delivered. Never had he wanted less to play the role of prompter; but he asked, in a steady voice:

“Did something delay you?” Quin threw him a sad, grateful look:

“There was a bomb. Not a full raid, as I understood it— a single German plane must have broken from the formation that attacked this area. Though the neighbourhood was caught by surprise, there was only one casualty — a young woman.”

Lt. Saunders’s freckled face was pale again. He set down his fork, very carefully.

“Was she a salesgirl in a frock shop — Madam Ursula’s or some name like that? Nice-looking girl, red hair?” Satterthwaite placed a hand on the young man’s trembling shoulder as Quin nodded. No one seemed to question his information.

“I am sorry for the loss of your friend,” the old gentleman said quietly, “but this does resolve your concerns for her future.” He looked up: “I know our hosts have worked very hard on this supper, but perhaps it would be best to get the lieutenant back to his base.”

* * *

The headwaiter had frowned at the premature end to the supper, but the big chef, quite contrary to his profession’s reputed temperament, had been deeply sympathetic and had merely insisted on wrapping up some little cakes for the travellers, saying he would hate for them to miss dessert.

“My friends, I am not sure there is anything more for you to do here,” said Mr. Quin, seemingly addressing both the Gargantuan figure of the chef, and the little dried-up pippin that was Mr. Satterthwaite. “But if I might have a word with _you_ , Miss Skuld—“ and here he turned to the fair-haired young woman. It _was_ funny that she had been present all evening, and yet none of them had learned her name until that moment.

Remaining by the automobile with Masters and the young pilot, Mr. Satterthwaite watched the two figures step away a few paces and bend their heads, one dark and one fair, together. They spoke quietly, too quietly for his old ears to catch the words, as Mr. Quin lit a cigarette for the woman.

“The waiter and the chef – friends of yours?”

Mr. Quin smiled with one side of his mouth.

“The regular staff of this public house would never have been able, after the raid, to get the kitchen up and running again in time to serve your party. I took the liberty of bringing some replacements. They’re not _restauranteurs_ by profession, you understand, but they’re very adaptable.”

“Indeed. Give them my compliments – the food was delicious, if of dubious provenance.”

Quin bowed.

“I do believe M. Mousqueton said something about his father having been a poacher.”

“And the wine?”

“That, I believe, they brought with them.”

“Then we were truly witnesses to a generous welcome. I don’t suppose even Satterthwaite is old enough to have tasted anything of that vintage. But now, to the matter of the pilot — I sometimes grant delays. If there are affairs to tie up.” She’d let Lohmann report his own murder, after all. “But since he can no longer try his foolish plan to look after his friend’s lover—“

“I was going to suggest a change in your plans, not a delay. The girl died because she went to warn all the neighbouring shops instead of going straight to ground.”

“You want me to take her instead of him?” Skuld was startled — this one usually kept to his own department, and his department was Love, not Valour.

Quin seemed to guess her thoughts:

“You already have Lieutenant Atwood to your credit. If he and Miss Hayward were reunited, even in your domain, I would consider both our missions accomplished.”

Skuld considered the offer, and looked back pityingly at young Saunders.

“Every decision makes ripples. It might be better, for his sake, if I rejected your suggestion and took him.”

“Satterthwaite and I will do what we can to look after the boy.”

“Oh, his fate is a long, long way off. Beyond your ken, I think, and certainly beyond Satterthwaite’s. Which reminds me – does he know?”

“Know what?”

“Don’t try to play innocent, you know it’s not your role. Does Satterthwaite know he died years ago? I assume it’s by your intervention that he’s still walking and breathing.”

“I don’t know whether he knows. He probably does. He’s too discreet to comment, but he always suspects the worst. Are you going to report me to the authorities?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Skuld replied. “We _are_ the authorities.” Quin looked at her sharply:

“Yes, and about that – has _yours_ figured out that you rate a little higher than a Valkyrie?” Skuld sighed:

“That one can keep his own counsel, too — when he wants.”

“Is my offer acceptable?”

Skuld sighed, and put out her cigarette.

“Very well. The bargain is struck. Do you have the girl?”

”You’ll find her in your vehicle. I took the liberty of having her wait for you there.” The Valkyrie glared at him and strode off without a word.

Harley Quin turned and walked back to Mr. Satterthwaite and the others, who were shivering slightly in the chill of the evening.

”The matter has been cleared up,” he said, “so far as it can be at present.”

* * *

 

It was a long walk to where she’d left the Benz, but Skuld did not have to walk if she didn’t feel like it. As expected, there was a young, red-haired woman waiting in the back seat, her expression firm though her eyes were frightened.

”How much has been explained to you?” asked Skuld, not unkindly.

”Almost nothing.”

”Well, why don’t you come sit up front, then? It will make it easier for us to talk on the way.”


End file.
